


Holiday Girlfriend

by tatooinesun



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alcohol, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Practice Kissing, References to Drugs, Slow Burn, adding tags as I go, maka is cute and soul is mad about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7084702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatooinesun/pseuds/tatooinesun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a last ditch effort to settle a bet, Soul Evans hires a girl named Maka off the internet to pretend to be his date. Falling in love with her wasn’t part of the deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to sojustifiable, pinkbubblegumgeek and uppastmybedtimereading316 for giving this a look over, they are the true mvps

He doesn’t like clubs. They’re loud and crowded and reek of sweat and alcohol. People shove past him as he pushes through a mass of grinding bodies and blinding LED lights, keeping his elbows tucked to his sides for fear of knocking into someone’s drink or worse, getting dragged into a pile of X-rated heavy petting, and there is a _lot_ of that going on right now -- more so than actual dancing anyway. Dense smoke hangs at neck level, vibrantly purple and engulfing as it swirls around flicking wrists and twirling hips. And when he accidentally inhales it, it tastes how the club smells - stale and doused in a noxious artificial stench. Pot and booze and ripe B.O. on a single cohesive breeze assault his nostrils and god, it’s worse than that one time Wes exploded a cup of shrimp ramen in their microwave.

Honestly, Black Star could not have picked a seedier scene to waste their night away in. The bass line is pounding in his ear, warbled and pulsing, and there’s no way to distinguish the irregular thump as any form of music. A tipsily swaying group of partiers eye him lewdly as he maneuvers his way across the floor, and his shoulder blades tense, blood burning his cheekbones. He’s on the brink of calling it quits and going home to his blessed, people-free, sound-absorbing environment, when he catches sight of an electric blue head hanging over the bar.

“SOUL! Ah, shit is lit now. Get your ass over here and witness me down this like a _god_ !” Even over the earsplitting dubstep Black Star’s grating voice still manages to turn several heads. Half-drunk club goers cheer in tandem as he hoists a shot of vodka Lion King style before swigging it all in a single go, emerging from his glass to belt _The Circle of Life_ in a key Soul isn’t entirely sure exists. A trickle of alcohol drips off his chin and onto his unbuttoned collar, but he doesn’t seem to notice or mind.

Wearing a black shirt and tie ensemble, his friend almost looks like he put in actual _effort_ for the evening, which is impressive given how most days he dresses like he just rolled out of bed. It’s a stark contrast to Soul’s pizza delivery getup, but he never does know the appropriate attire for places like this so maybe it’s lucky he didn’t have time to swing by the condo to change after his shift. Wes would have gone to town playing dress up.   

Black Star wraps up his impromptu Disney sing-a-long and turns to clasp Soul’s hand, following his lapse in affection with a none too gentle punch to the shoulder that he knows from prior experience will bruise purple come morning. Soul fights the urge to wince only out of habit. The first time he’d been on the receiving end of what Black Star dubs as his “Affectionate Punch of Laceration”, he’d let out an unfortunate grunt and had to endure a week long tirade of varying slights as primitive as ‘ _pansy’_ to ‘ _Sewage Guzzling Slim Dick the Third_ ’. He’d learned to develop thick skin as a hazard of knowing Black Star, so at least some good was coming out of this very questionably forged friendship.  

“Hey brotato-chip, what the fuck are you wearing?” _Questionably forged indeed_. Black Star is squinting at his outfit like it’s some sort of omen of death.

“I just got off work. Didn’t have time to change.”

“No one’s gonna want to tap a dude in khakis and a polo with a smiling pizza on the back. That’s some action repellent, and I’m telling you as a friend. I’m nice like that.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Soul replies dryly.

“No problem!” Black Star’s smile is bright, all traces of sarcasm evidently lost on him. “Anyway the swill they have here is cheap and nasty, you want to take it from a shot glass so you don’t have to taste it.” The bartender scoffs, clearly slighted, and Black Star offers an unapologetic shrug in return. “What? I am _paying_ for your shit, aren’t I?”

“You’re gonna get us kicked out,” Soul says while sliding onto the adjacent stool, only half joking. He remembers the notorious St. Patrick’s Day club crawl a few months back where Black Star had tackled a bouncer three times his size for posing a question about his age. It had undoubtedly been the most enjoyable event of the evening, perhaps even Soul’s entire life, and Black Star had nursed two black eyes for the better part of a month but swore wholeheartedly up and down that it was completely worth it.

“They can try! Anyone that thinks they can throw _me_ out had better be used to the sweet taste of defeat. Probably tastes a fuck ton better than whatever I’m having now.”

Soul shakes his head at the bluster and orders a whisky and Coke with a lime on the side. He ignores Black Star’s ridicule that the fruit makes the drink too girly. While at times he struggles with self image, his masculinity isn’t frail enough to be thrown by a lime with his alcohol. It tastes like ass, just as Black Star had forewarned, but it compliments the puncturing odor of the club nicely and soon enough his senses are too dulled to notice.  

An hour later and they’re deep in their cups, slack jawed and slumped over the bartop with similar looks of dazed satisfaction. He hadn’t planned on getting wasted but it had been a long, slow week and he’d spent the majority of his day doing battle with his mother’s passive aggressive text messages, vain efforts to get him over for dinner that evening. Adequately qualifying as one of the seven levels of social anxiety hell, he still prefers his current ambience to the pompous airs of the Evans dinner table. He swishes more alcohol around his teeth until he can’t see straight.

They shoot the shit with mundane topics he won’t remember the next morning, like Soul’s top hat wearing boss straight from hell, and Black Star’s latest MMO escapades, until slurred speech and unfiltered thoughts turn to the infamous Halloween party Black Star throws annually, his friend adamantly determined to have Soul go with one of the women who’ve been strategically pacing by their stretch of bar for the past ten minutes. “C’mon maaaaaaaan. They’re _so_ into you.”

Soul takes a sip of his drink, and it burns his throat as it goes down. He shakes his head to alleviate the sensation as well as reiterate his point but his equilibrium is off so he nods instead.

“Nah, they’re busy.”  

“You. Are. Pathetic. Peon.” Black Star punctuates each word with a fist to the bartop, knocking over his glass in the process. Amber liquid drips off the counter and pools around their shoes but neither of them make an effort to notice.  “ _Hookup hookup hookup hookup_!”

“Nah,” Soul repeats.

“ _Shit Soulllll_.” He drags out the L unnecessarily and tries twice to slap a hand to Soul’s back before giving up and resting it on the bartop. “I bet you...like one hundred. One hundred dollars you won’t have a girl for my party.”

A slap to what’s left of his ego never goes over well when he’s shitfaced and betting has been an age old tradition between them, going back to when their only currency was trading cards and crayons, so he counters the offer, stupidly so, with no hesitation. “Thas’nothing. I’ll bet you five hundred I will.”

“Seven hundred and f-fifty.”

“One-fucking-thousand.”

Black Star throws back his head and laughs, a loud barking hiccup that shakes the stool beneath him and turns the heads of several curious onlookers. “Oh you are SO on man.”

A chorus of _now you’ve fucked ups_ tug at his alcohol addled synapses, but he banishes them away with another sloppy chug of whisky. Something for future Soul to sort out.

“Hey man?” Black Star croons, ass half off the stool now as he leans to rest his head on the bartop, looking groggy and thoroughly inebriated. “You are like, the shit y’know. My bestest man. The best man to ever man, _y’knoooow_?”

Soul nods his head clumsily, clinging to his glass as his only point of balance. “I know. I know I know I know. Like even if I had a lady you would still be my favoritest.”

Black Star’s voice cracks with emotion. “Awwwww really? That is...so nice man.”

They’re too far gone to notice the exasperated eyeroll of the bartender.

:::

After a prolonged battle between his keys and the door, Soul slips into the condo he shares with his brother either very late at night or very early in the morning. He knows it’s still dark out, but he can’t exactly tell the time, despite the digital clock that was quite literally blinking in his face on the taxi ride home. Kicking off his shoes turns into an elaborate war waged against the tightly wound laces, and at some point he ends up with his cheek pressed against the floor, sobbing in pathetic frustration against the cool tile.

That damn dog Wes is so insistent on raising as his own bares witness to his drunken breakdown, and he knows it’s absolutely judging him from it’s perch on his brother’s coveted recliner. He scowls back passionately in retaliation.  

Several minutes (or maybe even hours) later, Soul collapses onto the futon that has an imprint of his shape, in a heap of questionably smelling limbs and intercourse repellant clothing, determined to fall asleep for approximately an eternity.

An eternity being half a day, as the clock on the DVR player so helpfully informs him when he wakes up feeling gross, in a state of groggy mucus-addled confusion. He’s wrapped in a blanket he recognizes from Wes’s bed, and there’s a sour iron taste in his mouth. It takes his brain several minutes to seep into some semblance of lucidity. His body is another story - aching with a permanent exhaustiveness he’s not sure he’ll ever recover from.

He can see Wes through his blurred vision, poised against the kitchen island like the stained granite counter is some sort of fucking lounge bar, a magazine in his hands and an expression that can only be described as shit-eating. Soul blinks in his direction as a form of greeting, and his brother’s perfectly groomed eyebrows disappear beneath his equally perfect hairline.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Wes declares loftily, folding over a page corner to mark his place. “You haven’t moved for fourteen hours; I was just about to check your pulse.”

“My _head_ ,” is all Soul manages, voice croaky and muffled as he moans the words into the couch cushion. Eyes pressed against the upholstery, here the lights are dim and he can pretend he doesn’t exist in this hell of an existence, where his physical vessel feels like it’s been hit by a steamroller and pulverized blender-style for good measure.  

“It’s your own fault little bro.” He barely registers Wes’s voice over the distraction his existential crisis provides. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you cried over your shoe laces.”  

So he’d seen that. Or that fucking mutt had told on him, he’s ninety percent convinced the two of them conspire with some kind of dog whisperer telepathy.

“Fuck off man,” Soul tries to retort but what comes out of his mouth is nothing short of spittle-distorted nonsense.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He resorts to flashing Wes the universal hand gesture of what he's trying to convey and gets a laugh in response, which does nothing to improve his rapidly deteriorating mood. Hangovers always make him slightly more agitated than his usual condition, which is saying something, given how ‘passionately disgruntled’ could be considered his constant state of being.  

“I thought I’d come home to you zombieing out in front of the Crunchy Roll logo and a bag of Doritos, but this is _much_ better. You _actually_ partied, hard. I’m so proud of you.” Wes wipes at a non-existent tear beneath his eye like he’s an enthusiastic pageant mom, and Soul just landed Ultimate Grand Supreme.

His brother’s voice and face, and cheery attitude in general are far too much for Soul to handle at the moment, so he rolls off his makeshift bed to grope his way along the wall. Wes’s annoying optimism follows him dolefully into the tiny hall bathroom, where Soul tolerates a brief glance to the mirror; hair mussed, drool and alcohol staining the corners of his mouth. Said mouth is pulled into an open lipped grimace and his pointed teeth are discolored purple beneath the unflattering fluorescent lighting. What kind of radioactive shit had Black Star been talking him into?

Wes is adjusting his pristine collared shirt behind him, but the amusement that comes with the juxtaposition of their reflections is overtaken by a sudden wave of nausea.

“Wes, I love you, but go extrovert somewhere else. I’m gonna hurl.”

“Do you need me to hold your hair back?”

Soul’s lived twenty-two years with his brother to know that he’s being completely serious.  

“ _Get out_ ,” he rasps, giving the door a satisfying slam in Wes’s complacent face before resigning to kneel painfully over the toilet bowl for the next half hour.

Once the contents of his stomach are emptied and he can stand on two legs without any support from the wall, he reemerges to find Wes spatulating a dozen sizzling strips of bacon and tapping his foot to some synthesized shit blaring over the radio. It reminds him too much of the noise that made his ears bleed at the club last night, and he emits a whine similar to a toddler having a favorite toy ripped from their hands.

“For a professional dancer, you have one godawful taste in music,” he gripes loudly over the bassline.

Wes ignores him and proceeds to sway his hips even more enthusiastically. Soul wants to vomit again all over the floor.

“Our forebearers were disappointed you couldn’t make it to dinner last night,” Wes says over his shoulder, stepping on his tiptoes and retrieving a plate from the cabinet to shovel the bacon onto.

Soul’s head feels too heavy for his neck to support, so he rests it against the counter unceremoniously. “Well I’m disappointed they decided to bring me into existence, so I guess we’re even.”

“Christ you sound like some o’four emo band.“ Wes shoves a plateful of bacon in his direction and it knocks into Soul’s head. He caws in aggravation but accepts the offering regardless because his empty stomach is gnawing, demanding any form of sustenance no matter how questionable Wes’s cooking can be. “Eat. Greasy food is good for hangovers.”

Soul devours the plate like a man starved. “Thanks Mom,” he says between mouthfuls.

“Mom wouldn’t have let you in the house. You’d be puking your guts up at some seedy motel.” He raises a valid point; the Evans Matriarch has zero tolerance for alcohol abuse, late night partying, or general screwing off - all incentives that founded this little bachelor pad they’d forged on their independence and Wes’s expensive dancer salary. They love their mother - she’s just a prude.

“Kiss the cook?” Wes blinks petulantly as he dumps the greasy pan into the sink before presenting his cheek with a coy smile.  

“Hell no - _mmrgh_ ,” Soul mumbles, mouth full of bacon, and it’s then that his phone vibrates in the back pocket of his pants. He reaches for it blindly, lidded eyes registering Black Star’s name before swiping to the shortly worded message.

_get ready to pay up scrub_

Six words that spell out his impending doom. The text is followed by a string of obnoxious sunglass emojis and Soul swallows hard before collapsing once again to the granite countertop, splaying his limbs across the surface in a position of defeat. He can’t win today.

“That our lovely mothership trying to hail you?”

“Worse,” he utters, lips pressed against the counter, too abashed to meet Wes’s eyes for the next string of ass kissing words. “I need your help.”

There’s a clatter by the sink followed by a singular syllable of breathy laughter. Wes mimes a picture frame with his thumbs and forefingers. “Hold up a second, I need to pause this moment and absorb it into my bloodstream.”

Soul groans and bangs his head against the granite repeatedly because he can’t recall ever screwing up this badly in his entire life. “Just listen, jesus fuck. Any chance I could bum a thousand off of you? I’ll love you forever and do the dishes for a whole _yeeeaar_ ,” he sing-songs.

Wes tsks, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “What’s this about? I’m not going to support your dirty weeb habits so you can drool over overpriced anime dolls.”

“First of all - that figure was Gordon Freeman who is a character from a _videogame_ that has _jack shit_ to do with anime, and secondly, I - don’t get mad okay - I kind of made a bet that I’d show up with a date to Black Star’s Halloween party.”

There’s a good ten seconds of silence where Wes’s face morphs from squinty eyed annoyance to complete utter exasperation and he looks so much like their father in that moment that Soul instinctively cringes away. “And you have to pay him a whole grand if you don’t? Oh my god, I’m never letting you drink again.”

“What do I _do_?”

“Either find a girl or get screwed over, you’re on your own for this one little bro. You have to learn to live with your intoxicated decisions, it’s part of being an adult.”

Soul bleeds onto the tiled floor and curls into the fetal position. Wes’s fur-matted child takes advantage of his despair and licks at the bacon grease that stains his cheeks. “Fucking fuck me.” There’s no way he can grovel at Black Star’s feet, begging for an outlet to this contract. He’d get a spittle-pervaded laugh straight to his face and a kick to his shins for good measure - bets were binding, sober minded or otherwise.

Wes is thumbing through that magazine again, like Soul isn’t having a national crisis on the dirty kitchen floor. “Y’know if you’re really desperate, there’s people you can pay to hold your hand and stroke your ego and it wouldn’t even cost you an entire month’s worth of paychecks.”

Soul aptly shakes his head, but then remembers Wes can’t see him from his vantage point. “I’m not hiring a call girl.”

“Nah man. Holiday SO’s. Look it up on Craigslist, their primary function is to put a plug on overbearing parents, but I bet you could find one willing to follow you around a party for a few hours.”

He’s already thumbing the term into his phone’s search engine, summoning a slew of results and of course there are, this is the fucking internet, a world where the effort of dating is spared at the simple expense of a monetary trip to the grocery store.  

The prospect of potential salvation causes him to sit up, and he peeks at Wes over the edge of the island. “This is a legit thing? People do this?”  

“Mmm hmm. A fake date, it’s an answer to all your prayers if you ask me.”

:::

This girl is cute in that nextdoor neighbor, best friend’s sister kind of way, if the picture on her ad is anything to go by. Messy pigtails and an oversized hoodie and big green eyes. Local too, and her hourly fee of fifteen dollars isn’t going to bankrupt him. His finger dances around the reply button for a day, internally debating whether or not to just screw it and come to terms with the fact that he’s a desperate, pathetic loser.

It’s a little before midnight when he finally gets the balls to shoot her an email - short and to the point. He’s in the area and interested in her offer and he’ll pay the money up front. Catfishing, of course, is always a viable risk, so he orchestrates a Skype session to rule out the very likely  possibility of his potential date being a neckbearded forty-year-old man.

Her name is supposedly Maka, and she’s cool with it. They exchange Skype names, internally cringing in self deprecation when he has to physically type out souleater and still refrain from seeming like some sort of a creep. She’s makachop, the same as her email, which is only slightly less humiliating than his own user. Middle School aged Skype names are where one’s dignity goes to die.

He spends the morning of their impending call smoothing down his ornery hair, and even goes so far as to borrow one of Wes’s high end button downs that probably costs more than his car - much to his brother’s smug satisfaction - but the nerves don’t really kick in until he’s sitting impatiently through the manic call chime, mouse hovering over the red hang up button and ready to click at the first sign of Mountain Dew or a body pillow. Wes is blessedly at a gig and and he’s positioned at the kitchen island so her first impression isn’t of all the punk rock band posters he’s plastered his room with.   

He can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when the girl from the picture comes into fruition. She gives him a chipped nail polish wave that calms his bouncing knee, soothing whatever spasm his muscles are having into some form of complacency.    

“Hi-” he blurts.

“Hey there-”

The lag overlaps their greetings, and he chuckles awkwardly before probing her on with a hand gesture. Not cool. 

“Sorry. You go first.”

She clears her throat and tilts her head, left pigtail fanning across her cheek and making her look all of thirteen. Fuck, how old is this girl anyway? “So I’m Maka.”

His sporadic anxiety-fueled knee picks back up again at full throttle - because her voice is nice, _really_ nice despite the distortion of his speakers - and there’s a wave of relief that his laptop’s webcam cuts him off mid-chest. “Soul. Nice to meet you - or uh, see you at least. Sorry about all this but you know, I don’t want to end up on Dateline.”  

Her laugh is even nicer, a contradiction to her high cheery voice, throaty and low, and it echoes residually around the kitchen walls. “Not all murderers give off creeper vibes. I could have charisma out my ass and still keep a small arsenal of polished weapons mounted on my wall.” Hearing this tiny pigtailed girl cuss is like seeing a teacher out of school - impressive and altogether unthought of until you actually bare witness to it.

He takes in the pink wallpaper behind her and scoffs. “Next to all your Hello Kitty couture? How old are you anyway?”

Green eyes narrow and he gets the sense that he’s probably treading on some thin ice here. “Twenty-two. And a half,” she sniffs. Same as him.  

“Going on six.”

She hmphs indignantly, scrunching up her face, making her look, if all possible, even younger. “Whatever _Soul Eater_ , I don’t even want to _know_ where that comes from.” Alright maybe he was asking for that bit of demoralization, suddenly wanting to go back in time and uppercut his trademarked edgy fourteen year old counterpart. Maka picks at a nail before continuing. “So what’s the occasion?”

“Halloween Party, next week.” He scratches at his chin for something to do with his hands. “It’s for a bet.”

“Ouch.” She shakes her head with pity he’s not sure is feigned.

A gratuitous silence falls between him that he feels compelled to fill, however awkwardly. “So uh - what do you do? Besides posing as a pretend girlfriend for the desperate and needy.”

“Full time student, getting my M.S.,” she answers promptly. “I don’t have time to be a serial killer.”

“You’re already on your masters? What the hell are you?”

She sits a little straighter at that. “A magnet school graduate who’s studied her ass off her whole life. What about you?”

He stutters, hand moving from his chin to the back of his neck. He’s got nothing on this child prodigy egghead. _Admittedly pretty_. He hates himself. “Distinguished pizza deliverer. Sometimes I play sudoku when the internet’s out?”  

“Unbelievable.” Her grin is cheeky as she pauses to check her screen for what he assumes is the time. He takes advantage of her distraction to gauge a brief view of the room behind her - tidy, pastel, an army of plushies completely dominating the quilted bedspread. There are worse hobbies. “I have class in twenty-minutes but we can meet some place to discuss the details. I’ll message you later?”

“What kind of details?”

“How we met. What we like about each other. You know-” She sticks her tongue out childishly. “Couple stuff.”

His stomach flips, ridiculously so. “Gross.”

“Thoroughly disgusting,” she agrees with mock sincerity before hastily adding, “Also I get to do the breaking up.” The corner of her mouth curves up to a smile he subconsciously mirrors, and if he stares at her miniature Skype portrait even after they’ve disbanded the call, no one but that stupid dog has to know.

 


	2. Fine Print

Soul is halfway through a relatively quiet shift when Black Star shows up to effectively ruin it.

He comes off a delivery to find his friend reclining in a booth with his mud crusted keds propped up on the table like he owns the place, dampening Soul’s mood substantially because he knows he’s going to have to clean up the aftermath. His shift manager, Kid, is eyeing him from behind the register as if he expects a fell swoop on their cash at any minute, wearing the best ‘go to hell’ face Soul has ever seen. It’s almost impressive that Black Star remains completely undeterred. _Keyword_ almost. Soul has seen him take down two hundred pounds of pure muscle, Kid’s supercilious little rich kid pout isn’t going to do much.  

“Evans, come dispose of your garbage,” Kid seethes, Soul barely half a foot in the door.

Black Star’s mouth quirks self righteously before settling his arms behind his head, flooding the restaurant with a whiff of stale axe body spray that’s a few gusts short of spiraling Soul into some prepubescent locker room flashbacks. “That any way to talk about your valuable costumers, grunt?”

“You haven’t bought anything, therefore you are loitering.”

“Correction. You are being _graced_ with the glorious Black Star’s presence. Bask in it.”

Kid practically chokes on his indignant scoff but makes no further attempt on Black Star’s occupation of the otherwise empty pizza joint, resigning to flip through the money in the register, an activity punctuated with very irritated sighs and glares in the inhabited booth’s direction. Black Star takes advantage of Kid’s surrender to unfurl his legs from the table before sweeping his hand at the empty seat across from him in invitation.

“Ahem. We have business, bromosapien.”

There are no call orders at the moment and Kid isn’t barking at him to wipe shit off of anything yet, so Soul decides to indulge him. It’s not hard to venture a guess as to what this is about, and he figures it’s time to burst Black Star’s euphoric egomaniac bubble. For his own good.

He wastes no time making demands as soon as Soul’s ass hits the paint chipped booth, sliding a parmesan cheese shaker sporadically back and forth between his hands. “I want that one k given to me Publisher’s Clearing House style. Balloons, giant check, the whole fuckin’ nine yards.”  

Soul’s smug smile is barely restrained behind a sleepy-eyed mask of indifference. He’d been expecting this. “Not gonna happen.”

“Alright minus the giant check, but balloons are a necessity. Helium. In the shape of a dick. So you can suck it.” Black Star sits back and drums his fingers across the table, humming a weak imitation of Dani California. Somewhere the Red Hot Chili Peppers are crying.

“I already have a date.”

“Confetti is also preferable - you what?”

Maybe his little triumphant smirk of victory is premature. Maybe it’s all worth it to see Black Star proceed to lose his collective shit, sputtering halfway through his tirade to mouth wordlessly for a good thirty seconds. It’s his turn for a self indulgent table drum. Hawaii Five-O. Far classier.

“Blake this is not a social hour, my employee has work to do,” Kid drawls, timing impeccably godawful as always.

Black Star whirls on him and Soul can visualize the metaphorical pencil snapping in his hand, grateful that his friend has an outlet for his rage that isn’t him. “I’m sorry cretan, are you talking to someone?”

“ _Black Star_ ,” Kid hisses through clenched teeth, as if giving voice to the nickname physically pains him.

Black Star makes a throaty warbled noise that could've come straight out of The Exorcist. “We’re discussing party biz, leave me alone." Kid glares so deeply that Soul thinks his eyebrows are going to become permanently fused together while Black Star refocuses his ire. "Anyway where was I? Oh yeah, _motherfu-_ "

“This is a family restaurant,” Kid interrupts.  

“Man, go suck a-”

"She’s cute," Soul says, spurred on, maybe stupidly so, by Black Star’s impending vanquishment. It’s nice to be on the other side for once, even if his success is entirely forged on a lie; specifically a fake girlfriend in the form of messy pigtails and a startling determination to study herself to death. There’s no such thing as morality when it comes to Black Star and his outrageous bets, chaotic eviling is a perfectly viable method and really the only way he’s going to secure a win at this point.        

Black Star delivers a furious fistful of powdered parmesan straight to his mouth, taking his anger out on the condiments. "Who is this chick and does she know you live off hot pockets and goddamn action figures? Because I am so not above telling her.”

The daily attack on his less than savory hobbies is water off his back - he’s heard worse jabs from his dear sweet mother. “You’ll meet her at the party, right before you write me up a check.”

“Don’t hatch your chickens before they’re ready little man, a lot can happen in a week.”

Correcting the analogy would undoubtedly earn him a punch to the dick so he settles on a change of topic instead. “Why are you here anyway?”

“As you know my car is totaled,” Black Star crosses himself like a god fearing southern baptist before continuing, “and I need to bum a ride to my karate class - that’s all the way across town, please please _pleeeeeease_ man.” He’d rolled his ford taurus washing machine style going eighty down a deserted dirt road - walked away ultimately unscathed too, barring a motley scar down his back that he likes to show off at parties.

“What about Sid or Mira?”  

Black Star sucks in an exasperated breath, like he’s trying to siphon all the air out of the room, before exhaling dramatically. “They’re both at work, _duh_. You think I’d be listening to twinkle dick over there if I had another option?”    

“ _He’s_ at work too,” Kid gripes, thumbing a finger in Soul’s direction. “Evans I forbid you, that is a breach of your protocol. Besides, you have another order. There’s no time to play chauffeur.”

“Protocol? This is a fucking pizza parlor not the Queen’s Guard,” Black Star sneers, offering Kid a lame salute before tastefully shaping it into a middle finger.

Soul paws for his keys and hyperslides his way off the booth. “I’m not gonna give him a ride, _jeez mom_.”

::

“Think he was checking me out?” Black Star asks later in the parking lot while Soul unlocks the passenger door of the delivery car for him.

They’d dealt with Kid all through high school, and Black Star has harbored a radically fucked crush on the guy since Sophomore year that manifests itself in the form of pretentious smack talk and an absence of anything even remotely romantic.  

“Yeah, the way you insulted him every second sentence must have really melted his heart,” Soul deadpans, shoving a mouthwatering inducing amount of pizzas into the backseat before cranking up the AC until his eyes water because even though it’s nearly November, this is _Nevada_ , so it’s still balls to the walls hot.

As far as he’s concerned, Black Star is living a pipe dream; he can’t even talk to Kid without candidly roasting him in some shape or form. Soul’s been putting up with Black Star since they were eating paste in preschool, so he knows that insults and jabs are his own personal fucked up love language. Putting words to any sort of emotion outside the realm of sufficiently pumped and unbridled anger is hard for him, and Soul can sympathize from his own clumsy tongue and inability to convey pretty much anything that’s going on in his head. Maybe that’s why they’re so good for each other, they don’t need a lot of wordy mouthpiece to get to a point. Still, at least Soul is above referring to any unforeseeable crushes as _twinkle dick_.

Black Star predictably ignores his slight, flipping on the radio to sort through statically fuzzed stations before settling on a bass-heavy metal riff that rattles the windows. He has to shout over the combined blast of air and incomprehensible lyrics. “He’s coming to my party y’know, asked him right before you walked in. _This_ ,” he gestures vaguely between himself and the restaurant in the foreground, rolling his hips lewdly to his own hummed rendition of a token _get it on_ song, “is _so_ happening. He couldn’t keep his eyes off me, did you see man? I'm fuckin' dynamite.”

Soul offers his friend a withering look. “Yup. Match made in hell.”

“I am shocked and offended.” Muddy keds are on his dashboard now. He’s going to have to wipe off the residue lest Kid catches whiff of his hitchhiker and has an aneurysm.

“He’d make you clean up your boxers off the floor daily, it’d be over in a week.” He wants to protect his friend, partially from _very_ potential heartbreak and partially because he doesn’t want to see him make an absolute ass of himself.

Black Star nestles deeper into the polyester seat, and Soul tries to get a read on him, but his face is pointed towards the window. “Whatever, opposites attract n’ all that shit. Just mush bro. We gots places to be.”

::

The message notification beeps in his headphones halfway into a game of League. No one ever really Skype chats him but _her_ , and the ridiculous swell of butterflies it elicits from his stomach is seriously uncool and kind of makes him want to throw up. Not that they’d been maintaining constant communication by any means. Their exchanges so far have been limited to idle day-to-day business and the occasional kitten picture at two a.m., coming from her end of course, though last night had seen a change of routine when they’d had an hour long cinema debate after she brought up she’d gone to see this new kung fu movie - she has a thing for martial arts films apparently, the kind he can’t sit through without snoring. He’s more of a sci-fi/fantasy guy and she’d been absolutely appalled at his, quote, ‘juvenile taste’.  

Just meager bits of conversation here and there to make things less awkward - and things were fucking _awkward_ . It’s hard for him to casually talk to a stranger he’s paying to hold his hand and blink up at him in a way that’s convincingly lovelorn, _hell_ it’s hard for him to chat up the mailman.

He waits until the match is over to minimize his game. An immediate reply to whatever she’s sent might come off as a bit pathetic - he has a cool casual facade to maintain afterall. He drags his mouse across the desk and clicks on her name, bracing for impact.

[[this is a costume party right? are you off tomorrow?]]

Fuck, he hadn’t even thought about that.

 _Yeah_ seems flippant, too casual. _Of course_ might be a bit pretentious, and _mmm hmmm_ is just plain immature.

He settles for yup. Diplomatic enough, and it doesn’t come off as needy or distant and christ, has he really reached the sad, sad point of analyzing his use of messaging verbiage.

The party in question is just four days away - he’s been counting it down a bit obsessively really - and between her busy schedule and his work hours, they’ve yet to brainstorm a meetup before the impending event, so he has some idea of where this is going.

She replies within seconds, and he feels like the world’s biggest jackass for making her wait so long before.  

[[costume central on park st tomorrow, 5pm DONT BE LATE]]

That’s doable. Couple costuming is probably expected at these sorts of things, so there really is no skirting around it, as long as they don’t dress up as Beauty and the Beast or some dumb shit like that. It still has to be sufficiently rad.

He plays with a slew of agreements before resorting to a simple [[see you there :)]] and regrets his use of emoji immediately, as well as all his life decisions.  

::

Wes is flat ironing his hair in the bathroom mirror - sweepback style, not edgy emo - when Soul slinks through the door. The air is tinged with throat clogging hair product and expensive cologne so he knows his brother is about to head out for a gig, which means he has to spring this plan now or resort to the hunk of junk he calls a vehicle for the evening.

“You want my car, don’t you,” Wes says flatly before Soul can act on anything, so unsurprised he doesn’t even bother to frame the words into a question. Being the only one between the two of them with a car that has working AC, this conversation crops up quite a bit.

Soul tries a winning smile that feels and probably looks a bit awkward on his face. “It’s for a good cause.”

“This is about your pseudo girlfriend isn’t it?” Wes probes, tugging indignantly on a stubborn wisp of hair that won’t stay down. “ _Little brotherrrr_ , I do not want to have to take off work tonight to come ID you in some landfill.”

“Uh, hello, this was _your_ idea. Anyway we’ve skyped, I know she’s not some creepy old man like you.”  

Wes actually pouts. “I’m not thirty for another month, also you’re very bad at this persuasion thing.” He disappears behind a spritz of hairspray before reemerging with a pointed look. “Where’s this romantic rendezvous supposed to take place?”

Soul takes his time fiddling with the multi-colored jars of beautifying concoctions on the counter (where half of Wes's paycheck goes) before answering sheepishly, “Costume Central.”

“And they say romance is dead.”

“Also you’re my favorite brother,” Soul adds.

Wes’s languid exhale through his nose lasts for a full ten seconds and Soul rocks back and forth innocently on his heels. “Wear something nice and _smile_ for christ’s sake, you always look like you found something disgusting on your shoe. Be back before ten so I don’t have to stay up worrying about you.”

Soul swipes a bottle of whatever his brother has smothered between his wrists - Eau du Overpriced as Shit, but it can’t hurt anything - and flies out of the bathroom. “Wes I love you forever.”

“ _Costume Central_ ,” Wes scoffs as he kicks the door closed behind him.  

::

He pulls into the parking lot in Wes’s souped up car at a quarter to five, spending the spare fifteen minutes psyching himself up for the plight of social interaction and trying to remember why he’s even here in the first place. _The money Soul, do it for the money_ had been his mantra on the drive over, but now that he’s sitting feet away from very probable doom in the form of inevitable missed social cues, the words don’t carry much weight.  

He thumbs the radio on because music is always his go-to distractor, headbanging along to whatever techno junk Wes has shoved into the CD player, when a knock on the insured coupe window nearly sends him into cardiac arrest.

“Soul Eater - hi!” Even muffled, he can still recognize her voice from their distorted Skype convo. Makachop, in the flesh, smiles at him from the other side of the glass, and he switches off the ignition before offering an awkward two-handed wave, while internally praying to whoever’s listening that she hadn’t just seen him breaking it down to distorted dubstep.

Somehow, blessedly, he manages to get the car door open and exit the vehicle without a mishap, i.e. looking like an ass. Less blessedly, after straightening the white button up he’d effectively stolen from his brother, he blurts dumbly, “You almost killed me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t blare your music so loud, you’re going to _kill_ your hearing,” she replies with an exaggerated eye roll, before presenting her hand like they’re meeting for formal business. She’s got the same dry snark he’s been battling via Skype chat for the past several days, so introductions seem kind of void at this point.

There are also lots of things he’d failed to notice about Maka during their brief video call, like the dusting of freckles across her nose or the big green eyes beneath tawny bangs. The schoolgirl skirt isn’t a surprise, it practically screams overachieving academic, but the lean muscled legs beneath the crisply ironed hem _are_ \- what does she do, deadlift in her spare time? Can she lift him? Half of himself is appalled for entertaining the idea while the other half indulges in a blurry edged fantasy where she bench presses him two-handed.

He realizes with a feeling akin to jerking awake in a cold sweat that he’s neglected her handshake because he’s too busy staring at her _fucking legs,_ and remedies that hastily before burying both hands in his pockets, as though that will cleanse him of his many _many_ sins. Failed social cue number one.

If she notices his slip in composure, she doesn’t react, merely stares up at him owlishly with those big blinking eyes that look like they’re analyzing and picking apart every essence of his being. He feels like he’s five again, and Mom’s just caught him stomping around on her imported porcelain china.

“So you’re cool with this then?” He’s not really sure what he’s insinuating, maybe the fact that the parking lot is mostly deserted barring their two cars, maybe their state of existing together entirely.

She tilts her head with a calculating look. “Well you have a horrible taste in movies, and don’t know how to button a shirt.” He startles at that, eyes flicking down to find that he’d mismatched his bottom two buttons, and _of course he had_. “But I trust you. Mostly.”

“You’re evil,” he counters, struggling to right his crime of fashion as she laughs behind her hand at his misfortune.

She adjusts her expression innocently. “Wanna go ahead and get the nitty gritty details out of the way first?”

“Nitty gritty - what?”

That earns him a huff of exasperation. Makachop is kind of bossy.

“My terms.” Right. Couple stuff. The reason they were doing all this in the first place. It had been easy to slip into the facade that this was nothing more than a shopping trip with a friend, but he’s quite literally paying her to be here, so they might as well get down to business. She crosses her hands carefully behind her back and adopts a scholarly tone like she’s reciting a speech. “No making out. No grinding. No touching below my shoulders except for my hands and arms. No sex. Kisses are okay. No tongue. Handholding is fine. Any violations of our agreement and I can walk away whenever I want, you still have to pay me.”  

The sheer thought of handholding or fucking hell, _kissing_ her is enough to to send his blood cold and pulse race at a speed entirely too fast for his body to catch up to, and he really doesn’t need this. His throat is dry and constricting as he feels himself, rather distantly, utter a quick, “Got it.”

“Alright let’s go inside.” She’s tugging on the neck of some university emblemed hoodie, and he feels overdressed in essentially what is Wes’s wardrobe, barring his own less than stellar worn converse. “I’m sweating buckets out here.” Cute girl with the lingo of an old timer, she's an interesting package that's ultimately utterly confusing for his hormones. 

He’s pretty sure his perspiring has more to do with mind numbing anxiety, but he offers a hurried “Yeah,” before trailing after her into the only marginally cooler store that smells of mothballs and pungent dust. Tacky Halloween decorations line the paint-peeled walls and aisles, contradicted by the bubblegum pop playing through the speakers and it all screams dated, but Maka is already making a beeline for the shopping carts like she’s on a mission detrimental to mankind.

“Do you do this a lot?” he asks when she returns, voice low with a careless confidence he can only pretend to possess.

“Shopping?”

He reddens, waving his hand around like he can grasp for clarification out of thin air. “No, fake date people.”

She looks away before admitting with a one-fingered scratch to her cheek, “Oh um - you’re my first actually. This will be a learning experience for us both I guess. You push?”

He feels a figurative weight depart his shoulders. It’s a relief to know that they’re both new to this straight up bizarre world of pretend significant others, and that tampers down his nerves enough to crack some semblance of a smile. “Just don’t put me in tights or anything Disney related.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she answers dryly, but her eyes are shining in a way he’s already committed to memory.

He pushes the squeaky, eye-twitch inducing cart after her in the direction of the costume section, falling behind because the wheels are sticky with what, he doesn’t want to know, and he keeps spiraling into zigzags that make him look like he’s shopping under the influence.

He finds her - several knocked over displays later - sorting through hangers of gaudy brightly colored garments, and she holds up some kind of green woodland elf getup against the length of his body that yes, _has tights_.  

“What size are you?”

“Uh - I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, certain that he’s reached a new level in lameness. King Dweeb. The ruler of Loserville - population him. He hasn’t bought new clothes for himself in years, he usually just fits into his old high school stuff or mooches off Wes’s designer level apparel. “Do _not_ put me in that,” he pleads.   

Her mouth curls teasingly.

“But it’s so _cuuuuute_.”

“I will fight you.”

Lower lip jutting out like a petulant child, she reshelves the mystical pixie ensemble with a mournful sigh. “We’ll go with a large then, you’re so tall anyway.”

They soon find there isn’t much of a selection to choose from. With Halloween just around the corner the stocks are pretty barren; they’ll be lucky to land matching condiments and quite frankly, he would rather go stark naked than flounce around in corresponding ketchup and mustard outfits.

They’re a few minutes into their seemingly futile search when she pipes up unexpectedly from across the aisle. “So what’s our couple story? You know, how we met.”

He looks up from a Stormtrooper armor set that he was kind of maybe eyeing. “Let’s make is so cheesy it’s good.”  

“Hmm. Cheesy,” she says thoughtfully. It’s kind of scary how easily her innocent enough features slip into a wicked grin.

By the end of the second aisle of costumes they’ve devised a story that’s disgustingly rom-com worthy; she’s an overworked college student who’d ordered delivery on a whim and they’d fallen head over heels in love, the irony being she’s tragically lactose intolerant but she risks nights of agonizing stomach cramps and overpriced pizza just to catch a glimpse of him. They’re in stitches by the thrilling conclusion.   

“And then,” he goads as she snickers into her hand - damn, that little habit is kind of adorable, “you found my number scrawled on one of the napkins, and the rest is history.”

“That’s so revolting, let’s use it,” she says, utilizing the clothes rack more as leverage for her fits of giggles than actual browsing. “Why are you so good at corny romantic improv?”

He scoffs, feigning offense. “I can be sensitive.”

“The sci-fi fantasy thing is all a mask. You’re a lovelorn romantic film guy at heart aren’t you?”

“Tell anybody and we’re over.”

It hits him suddenly by what a good time he’s having, how easy it is to exchange banter with her, and he’s starting to ponder exactly what that means, when Maka yelps without warning and practically rips a black material adorned hanger from the rack. “We’re saved - they have Princess Bride costumes! You would make a _perfect_ Dread Pirate Roberts, and I can be Buttercup.”

He blinks, not thoroughly sold on that title. “Princess Bride?”

Her crossed arms and furrowed brows make him feel like he’s personally offended her and all her dead ancestors.“Oh my god, what rock have you been living under? ‘My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father prepare to die?’”

“Indigo Mon-what now?”

“ _Inconceivable_ ,” she huffs.

Five minutes later, he’s stuffed into a cramped dressing room, trying to make sense of all this black fabric and faux leather. The pants are a little baggy but the height is perfect for once in his post-instantaneous growth spurt existence, so he can deal with a bobby pin or two at the waist. After donning the mask, he flounces the plastic sword around in the mirror, and okay, admittedly he looks kind of badass. He also decides then and there that he will never speak of this to anyone.

“Soul, are you done yet?” Maka calls from the hall, voice tinged slightly with impatience. He can’t be blamed, there’s a lot of intricacy to this cheap store-bought costume; it’s almost cosplay worthy. She must have already tried on and assessed her own piece because she’s back in her customary hoodie and pleated skirt when he emerges cautiously from the stall for her approval. He grudgingly indulges her gesture for a quick model twirl, and when he turns back around she’s nodding with an appreciative smile that makes his stomach feel like a shaken up soda can.

"Say, 'As you wish'," she urges.

"As you wish?" 

"Perfect."

::

The sky is a hazy purple when they step out onto the parking lot, two purchased Princess Bride getups later. She makes him pinky swear like they’re eleven or something that he’ll go home and watch it on Netflix, and because she’s so goddamn adamant and kind of cute when she’s excitedly bouncing back and forth like that, he agrees.

“Here.” She’s chicken scratched something onto a note and presses it into his palm with a shy smile. “My address. Since I now know you’re _mostly_ not a serial killer or anything.”

The skin of his hands tingle where her fingers had traced seconds ago for reasons unknown to him, and he clenches his fist around the slip of paper to distract himself with any other sensation than the touch of her skin. It takes him several incredibly painful seconds to find his voice again. “So uh - see you Friday then? I’ll pick you up and we can go together, so it’s convincing enough.”

“Sounds like a date.”

He tries not to watch her legs as she goes, fails tragically, and contemplates the varying degrees of just how fucked he is.


	3. Orbit

During the span of red lights on the drive back to the condo, Soul reasons that it doesn’t matter Makachop has a nice laugh, and a great pair of legs, and can rock a plaid skirt like nobody’s business. After Friday he’s never going to see her again, so he can go ahead and perform a memory dump on every imagined outcome that doesn’t involve him waving her goodbye in his rearview mirror. He particularly mourns the visage of her deadlifting him over her head, that was one of his favorites, but there’s no point in getting attached to a girl who’s making bank off being nice to him - it’s a bit pathetic really (okay, a lot pathetic), and he’s already his own special breed of that adjective.

Still, he stays up late to watch Princess Bride on his laptop all while providing live commentary to Maka via Skype chat because he hates himself or something. He wasn’t going to bug her at first, honest, but she’d sent him her token greeting (a picture of a kitten, this time in a coffee mug), and if she’s idly browsing the internet for baby animal memes, he figures she really doesn’t have anything better to do. Also fuck it, he has zero impulse control.

The movie turns out to be a lot better than he’d gathered from Maka’s horribly quoted renditions, and they stay up debating film logic until an ungodly hour of the morning. M.S. aspirer Maka is predictably a realist, so she’s quick to pick out flaws and plot holes, and generally suck the fun out of everything; her suspension of disbelief is as short as her temper. He reads over her messages with an exasperated, stupidly fond smile that he catches himself making, and adjusts that aptly, because _no_.

[[i’m just saying it seems reasonable for her to have recognized his voice, he’s the love of her life]]

He’d abandoned the deliberate pauses between his replies hours ago, and it’s embarrassing how quickly he types out a cheeky reply.

[[sap. also oh my god only you would apply logic to a movie with giant fucking face eating rats]]

[[rats of unusual size]]

[[i like my name better]]

That earns him a colorful array of eyeroll emojis, and that obnoxious, warm grin has planted itself firmly back on his face. He wonders if all this is going to stop after their Friday night pseudo date, if she’s being nice to him just to get him off her back. His chest turns traitor and aches at the thought.

He nods off with the Skype tab still open on his lap, and spills his half finished soda all over Wes’s runway level designer shirt, like the universe is personally punishing him for his pigtail oriented sins.

::

The universe apparently still isn’t done with him. Friday comes much sooner than Soul is prepared for, and he wakes up to get a groggy M-rated eyeful of bright, violet hair sauntering about the kitchen in thigh highs and booty shorts - “Your big brother said you were playing dress up for your date, and I wanted to _seeeeee_ .” Blair crashing their condo isn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence, Soul is pretty sure his brother’s _friend_ (he’s also ninety percent sure they’re fucking) lives at the bar he’d met her at, so she’s usually here mooching off their futon and hot water. She keeps Wes on her bar tab while Wes lets her use their amenities and occasionally hobo it up in their bachelor shack. Soul personally thinks his brother is getting the short end of the stick (see also, fucked over), Soul even more so because he’s not getting anything out of this other than a weird, overly affectionate surrogate aunt that likes to get into his dragon hoard of popsicles. She always takes the purple ones. He loves the purple ones.

Today, however, Blair’s singular purpose is to coo and swoon and generally go batshit over his costume, her enthusiasm only rivaling Wes’s by a tiny fraction. They’re practically feeding off each other, and between the two of them, Soul is slowly growing prone to high frequency hearing loss.

“I want to freeze this moment and live in it forever,” Wes croons when Soul steps out of his bedroom in full, black pirate getup, mask in hand because it's hot enough as it is without something straight up Alien-level Facehugger on his head. Wes and Blair are sitting shoulder to shoulder on the loveseat with that damn dog at their feet, and it’s like the holy trinity of migraine inducers. He's already endured an hour long tirade of dating 101 (Blair brought diagrams???), hasn't he suffered enough?

"Awww! Baby Evans looks _adorable_ ," Blair purrs with a gooey, doting look in her eyes that's so reminiscent of his brother's he thinks the universe is going to implode from all the gross, mushy affection he's receiving. It’s got to be a record for the sheer amount of times he’s felt physically ill this week.

Soul rolls his eyes with all the passion of a rebellious preteen. “Can you two chill for like, five minutes?”

“Y’know what this reminds me of?” Wes’s mouth curves into that familiar toothy snicker that usually spells danger, and Soul is determined to put a stop to _exactly_ where he knows this is going.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he seethes in a way he hopes is convincingly threatening.

No hesitation whatsoever. “Your pageant days.”

Wes beams. Soul glares. “There’s something wrong with you. Like, ethically.” So much for familial loyalty. He makes a mental note to spill on the ratty baby blanket his brother refuses to sleep without the next time he has a chance.

Blair is already hyperactively bouncing on the couch cushion, like she’s just received the greatest news of her entire life. “ _Ohhhhh_ kitten!!! You were a pageant kid? I bet you were cute enough to eat.”

“He was. I have photographic evidence.”

Wes and Blair proceed to go gaga over a full on camera roll of posed glamour shots ( _why_ does Wes keep them on his phone?), while Soul is treated to his own brutal war flashbacks of a dark period in his life he keeps repressed, full of cakey stage makeup and sequined vests, and godawful tacky musical routines. It was an atrocity to God. Also entirely his mother’s doing.

"I'm leaving. Immediately," he blurts, making a desperate break for the door before Wes can whip out a goddamn powerpoint presentation, complete with glittering animation effects.

Wes sock slides down the hall after him. "Have fun little bro! Don't fuck in my car."

"Fuck out of his car!" Blair singsongs, "On the hood!"

Soul wants to puddle on the floor and scream loudly out of sheer humiliation. He settles on "I hope one day we find out you were adopted," and slams the door on Wes’s reply of, “Love you too!”, before fleeing into the dry Nevada heat that’s pretty close to the temperature of his burning cheeks.

::

Maka is sitting on the front porch of her ranch style home in ninety degree weather when he pulls Wes’s car into her driveway. In that pillowy red getup, he knows she's fighting off death via blazing desert sun by sheer willpower alone. She offers him a tired half wave which he reciprocates with his three middle fingers, hand still curved tight around the steering wheel.

The coupe is more or less a weaker definition of the word clean; fast food wrappers and empty shoe boxes completely swallow the backseat and there’s a pile of magazines the size of a child skewed across the floor, but at least the front is mostly sparse. His brother has many attributes. Neat, at least in regards to clutter, is definitely not counted among them, and his twenty-six grand flashy sports car doubles as a makeshift storage facility for all his junk.

Soul rolls down the window while Maka peels herself off the ground. "That's a perfect way to die of heatstroke." He tries to prop his elbow cooly on the open frame, fails spectacularly, and ends up fist punching his own eye. The corners of Maka’s mouth twitch. He dies a little inside.

Desperate for an escape, he ducks over to push open her door, and she slides into the passenger seat, puffing an exaggerated sigh through an O-shaped mouth. “Thank you Willis Carrier,” she exhales, like she’s coming off a 10k. She side eyes his bewildered expression before clarifying with a smile that’s maybe a tiny bit sheepish and a tiny bit endearing and is more than messing with his ability to breathe like a normal human being. Fucked, he is fucked. “The inventor of the air conditioner.”

Right. Of course. Like he diligently filed away every old white guy he’d learned about in high school. “You are such a nerd.” He endures her scoff (everything that comes out of his mouth seems to be punctuated by it) before he puts the car in reverse and tries not to back over the tacky lawn gnome chilling by the mailbox, which is bright and gaudy so it’s not exactly that hard to miss. “And you were sitting in searing heat just for shits and giggles orrrrr-?”

“Oh uh.” Her nose pinches as she leans forward to direct the AC’s line of fire in her general direction. "My useless dad locked me out on accident before he went to work. Luckily, I left my costume in my car."

"He -- locked you out?"

She tugs at a strand of her loose hair thoughtfully, like a cat batting a ball of yarn. "He kind of forgets I exist sometimes, he's not used to having me around. I'm only living with him now because he's close to my college."

“Does he know about,” Soul gestures vaguely between the two of them, as if a label to their relationship will magically fall out of the sky, “...all this?” he croaks when it doesn’t.

“Absolutely not,” she states simply. “He’d probably kill you.”

Soul expels breath like a deflating balloon. “Great.” Six feet under for metaphorically dating this guy’s daughter, what a way to go.

Maka doesn’t offer anything more, and Soul is not about to pry, mainly because he’s got his own fucked up family dynamic, and the last thing he’d want to do is openly talk about them to a veritable stranger.  

“You look good by the way,” she pipes when they pull out of her neighborhood onto the highway, and he almost steers the car directly into a fucking ditch. She’s looking at him out of the corner of her eye and he’s suffering genuine heart palpitations, what is _wrong_ with him?

“I look _cool_ ,” he remedies lamley. “But thanks. You too.” His tongue feels clumsy and far too big for his mouth, but it’s one hundred percent the truth; she can rock shapeless medieval dresses as easily as she can a mini-skirt, it’s gotta be a cardinal sin or something. He needs Jesus. 

They spend the twenty minute car ride debating the finer points of medieval weaponry while he contemplates where she’s been all his life.

::

He’d made a deal to treat her to dinner prior to their ‘date’ so they end up at a mostly deserted McDonald’s a few streets away, because he’s the epitome of class. Also it’s the only thing open within a fifteen mile radius at this time of night. Their getups warrant a few stares from the overworked staff, but one comes over to shyly ask if he and his ‘girlfriend’ wouldn’t mind a picture, The Princess Bride is her absolute favorite movie. At least they get a discount for showing up in costume.  

They wedge themselves into a questionably wiped down booth, picking at a twenty piece mcnugget meal and waging war for the depleting packets of ketchup.  

“I didn’t know you have tattoos,” Maka says when he leans across the table to steal a fry, oversized sleeves gathering at his elbows to reveal the inky swirls that line both his arms. Trophies of his teenage punk rock phase. He likes them anyway. “What do they mean?”  

He shrugs and lazily stretches his arms out across the table. “A lot of them I got just to piss off my parents.” She pokes  at the black inked skull near his elbow and he laughs. Mom had nearly kicked him out of the house for that one. Nana thought it was neat.

“What about this?”

Grinning great white shark. Cartoonish, and in no way intimidating.

“Lost a bet. I can make it dance though.”

She snorts, languidly swirling a fry in Soul's coveted slosh of ketchup. “What’s with you and betting? That one?”

A musical scale, lining his forearm.

“First five notes of Etude in C minor. It’s one my favorites.” Don’t blush. Blushing is not cool.

She hums before running her index finger across the infinity sign, inscribed below with two dates on the inside of his wrist. “I like this one.”

He nods. “Me too. My grandmother. She died last year. She uh -- meant a lot to me.”

She offers him a soft, sad smile and gently nudges his arm back across the table. “I want a tattoo.”

“Yeah? What would you get?”

“A scythe,” she answers matter-of-factly.  

Half the trip over here had been spent arguing over the functionality of a weaponized medieval weed eater, so he rolls his eyes. “It’s _not_ a weapon.”   

“But wouldn’t it be cool if it was!” She giggle-snorts into her straw and it makes her drink bubble. He can’t help but smile. She’s such a dork, with her pigtails and old lady lingo and extensive knowledge of obscure topics - like Roman era pilums, Christ. She’s also bright enough, charming enough (when he’s not giving her shit), to do whatever the hell she wants. So why is she here with him?

“Earth to Soul. You’re staring at me.”

Oh, he is isn’t he. He swallows hard and swipes another of her fries by way of distraction. “Trying to figure you out.”

“What’s there to figure?” She sounds slightly apprehensive and he regrets ever opening his mouth _ever_ , but there’s no going back now.

“Why do you do this whole fake date thing? There’s plenty of other ways to make money.”

She sips at her soda thoughtfully, like she’s weighing her options, before answering. “Because I’m never going to date for real. I was curious.”

He chokes on half a fry. “What?”

She gives a weary tug to a strand of displaced hair. He’s starting to register it as some sort of nervous habit. “Relationships are pointless. You get invested in a person, and then you either end up getting tired of them or hating them. This way I get the experience with no strings attached. And I get free nuggets.” She’s trying to make light of the situation but he hears the way her voice grows tighter as she speaks, sees the way her eyes won’t pan away from the table.   

Damn, that’s more messed up than his own tarnished view on relationships. He holds romance with no great sanctity, but he’s never envisioned himself being alone _forever_ . Not that there’s anything wrong with staying single, but he’s kind of secretly hoping that someday he’ll find someone willing to put up with his late night gaming binges, and waves of anxiety, and tendency to never pick up after himself. Maybe raise a dog with.

“At the risk of sounding like a sap, they’re not _all_ like that. Sometimes you can, fuck I dunno, find ‘the one’ or something.”

Her face goes suddenly very solemn and it catches him off guard. “My mama graduated high school valedictorian, she had a full scholarship to Princeton, and she dropped all of that for _the one_. She gave up her future because she was in love. And then the one got bored, and cheated on her and broke our family apart. I’m not going to let that happen to me. It's easier this way.”

His stomach sinks spectacularly as he's hit with a wave of empathy. “Ah shit. Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean-” He extends a hand that he really doesn't know what he's planning to do with across the table, but she pulls away last second, rolling agiley off the booth before straightening to smooth out her dress.  

“It’s fine. I’m going to go get a McFlurry. Drown my sorrows. Do you want one?” She’s trying humor on for size but it doesn’t fit very well. 

He shakes his head no and groans under his breath as he watches her go. How many failed social cues is it now?

Soul - 0 Universe - A fuckton

::

They sidestep the beer bottle garden collectively growing in Black Star’s yard and approach the suburban two-story lit up like a flourescent Christmas tree hand in hand - Maka’s suggestion. It feels weird - okay more than weird, plain fucking awkward. He’s more or less a foot taller than her, and he has to hold his posture at an odd angle, and it hits him like a semi that he doesn’t think he’s ever done this whole physical intimacy thing before? Sure, there’d been that cringe-worthy prom date with Kim Diehl back in senior year, but he’d hardly touched her, and she’d abandoned him at the buffet table halfway through the night because he’d vehemently refused to dance the Cotton Eye Joe.

Maka had helped adjust and tie his mask before they’d gotten out of the car, so at least that’s doing a suitable job of hiding any inadvertent expressions he doesn’t want broadcasted to her. The same can’t be said for his hands which are pulsing like his heart has dropped to his palms, but that’s got less to do with her side pressed against his own, and more to do with the hornet’s nest of forced extroversion he’s about to walk into. Parties are his kryptonite.

She squeezes his hand tightly to redirect his attention, and his fingers twitch in her grasp. “Hey, you okay?” She’s looking up at him with wide green eyes that scream genuine concern, and he knows for a fact she wouldn’t laugh if he spilled his apprehension, but Toto’s Africa is blaring through the walls of the house, and they’re surrounded by giant goddamn inflatable pumpkins, grinning eerily from every cardinal-point. It’s got to be about the most ridiculous setting for a heart-to-heart, so naturally, he lies through his teeth.

“m’ fine. just hope we can get away with this.” He shrugs and inwardly weeps at the absence of the security blanket that is his pair of pockets.

“Last chance to abort mission,” she says with a small smile. He swallows thickly. The image of Black Star cackling over his demoralized husk presents itself neatly in his mind, and Soul immediately rules that option null and void; he's still got a meager amount of dignity, smushed somewhere in between all the crippling anxiety and diminishing self worth that's worth preserving.  

“And cough up my cost of living, no thanks. C’mon, let’s just get this over with," he mutters before straightening to shoot her a wry grin. "Fake couple mode activated, don't look at me unless it's sufficiently full of suppressed longing and adoration and all that."  

She steals his plastic sword and whacks him with it.

It’s predictably a bona fide clusterfuck inside. Black Star has pulled out all stops and splurged on black lighting, and strobe effects, and it’s emanating the same vibe as one of the clubs his friend drags him to every other weekend. Someone’s gotten into a roll of toilet paper and draped it haphazardly down the banister and across a light fixture. There’s fallout from whatever junk food is being provided. Everywhere. The costume adorned (probably mostly wasted) crowd is thrashing about in a way that resembles mosh pitting more than dancing. Sid and Mira are probably going to weep when they get back from their weekend timeshare.   

“Wow,” Maka mouths at him, eyes wide as they absorb the post-apocalyptic worthy disaster zone spread out before them.

“Yeah, Black Star kinda goes all out,” Soul shouts, but doesn’t think she can hear him over the thrumming of Bobby Kimball lamenting about wild dogs and Kilimanjaro.

He steels his nerves and forges onward through the sardine-packed crowd, tugging Maka behind him in search of the host of this absolute shit-storm. Maybe he can just prove her existence, get paid, and then go home and sleep, preferably for a thousand years. After a really long cold shower.

But that also means cutting Maka off from his existence, like he expects will happen once she has her cash in hand. Not that he’s doubting any moral integrity she possesses but shit, it’s not like she’s here on her own volition. Their McDonald’s booth confab is still fresh in his mind. This is all an experiment to her, a one-time experience, and he has no right to selfishly hope for anything more. But he kind of wants to drag this out a little longer than twenty minutes, even if he’s balls deep in dizzying social interaction. Plus he’s paying her by the hour, so it’s really as much of a favor to her as it is to him. Yeah. That’s a viable excuse that he can use to sleep at night.

He lets temptation get the best of him and steals a glance her way. Rainbow strobe lights like stars in her eyes, she’s bouncing her head along to eighties pop synth unabashedly. His throat tightens like he’s all of fourteen.

The scene is ruined by five feet of unoriginal Ghostface, tacky blood effects version, and a muffled warcry of, “Supplicate to me peasants!” Black Star (surprisingly not completely shitfaced) very nearly tackles him face first to the ground, and Soul only wards him off with a swipe of his cheap bendable sword, which folds over cartoonishly against his black cloaked ribs like a slinky. Black Star snatches it out of his grip and Soul lets him have it, as consolation for the fuck ton of debt he's about to send him spiraling into.

“Nice tights bromego, what the _shit_ are you? A ninja?” His friend greets him with a slosh of beer down the front of his shirt and a closed knuckled punch to the shoulder. There’s a respite to the music, and it’s enough to make out a half coherent conversation, even if Black Star’s voice is muffled by a plastic fullface mask.  

“The Dread Pirate Roberts. From Princess Bride.” He doubts Black Star is cinematically well versed when his personal library consists of masterpieces such as Shrek and The Human Centipede.     

“Gazun-fucking-tite my guy. And you do look _tight_ man. All dressed up to bestow your one-thousand dollar check upon the altar of the mighty B-Star? Where my dollar signs at? _”_ He rubs his thumb and forefinger together expectantly. 

“ _Oh my god, no_ ,” Maka whimpers behind him, which Soul thinks is a perfectly feasible reaction to meeting Black Star for the first time.

“I told you already, I have a date.” Soul gulps down fifty waves of anxiety before wildly beckoning Maka forward. She curls her tiny hands around his arm, however tentatively, (this is so many levels of weird for _both_ of them) and rests her head against his shoulder. He tries not to shutter.

“You didn’t tell me you were friends with _Black Star_ babe,” she hisses, fingers digging just a little tighter into his sleeves. The thrown on endearment has him reeling so hard he barely comprehends the connotation of the sentence. Alright what?

Black Star blanches until his face twists first into dawning realization, then flat out sadistic glee. “Holy balls, you brought Maka Albarn? _You’re dating Maka Pigtails Albarn_?”

Soul loses all feeling in his legs, and he barely manages to scavenge his voice. “You two know each other?” he wheezes, whipping his head back and forth between his fake date and his best friend enough to give him whiplash. That’s it. The universe hates him. Has a personal fucking vendetta and everything.

“I’ve only been handing her ass to her since we were five,” Black Star gloats, puffing out his chest.  

Soul looks to Maka for translation. “We take karate together. That’s about the extent of our relationship,” she clarifies before wheeling on Black Star, inadvertently whacking Soul with a facefull of her hair. “I didn’t know this was _your_ party,” she sputters, pointing an angry finger.

Black Star crosseyes it before snorting. “I didn’t know you wanted to bone emo wanna-be losers, Pigtails, how are you two even a _thing_?”

“I liked his pizza,” Maka sniffs.

That evokes an infamous cackle, and it’d be pretty great if the ground could swallow Soul whole, like immediately. “Oh, I bet you do. Yo my parents bed is open if you guys wanna perform the act of fornication.”

Nothing about that sentence remotely makes Soul want to ‘fornicate’, and Maka’s face has gone a few shades brighter than her dress. He’s pretty sure his own flush of blood-to-cheeks is going to burn a hole through his mask, but Black Star is already finger gunning his way back into the crowd and he’s too fast for Soul to nab.

“Hey, I want my money!” he shouts after retreating Ghostface’s black cloaked back. He gets a triumphant wave of plastic sword in response. “Asshole.”

Maka released him at the first sliver of opportunity and reverently buries her face in her hands, propped up against the hallway wall like it’s the only thing keeping her sanity in check. “ _Urrrrgh_ , he’s never going to let me live this down,” she groans lowly.

Soul puts a weary two and two together and makes a revelation. “ _Makachop_?”

She peeks at him between her fingers with a weak raise of her brows. “Do you think I’d solicit myself on the internet without over a decade of martial arts behind me?

“You could judo flip me right now?” 

“No, because I take karate, not judo.” He laughs as she chops his jaw lightly.

Silence follows. Awkward silence, not the comfortable kind, and he desperately claws for something to talk about. School would be a dry subject, even if she is a certified nerdbrain, they’re at a party for Christ’s sake. Maybe he should get her a drink? He doesn’t want to drink. Offer to dance? He can’t. But he can tell she’s kind of enamored with the whole hoard of party-goers thrashing to the music. He’s also concerned about the power she holds over him if just a tiny look of curiosity can coerce him into waving his limbs to 80s one hit wonders in front of a crowd of mostly strangers. Fuck it.

“So uh…” he says, scratching his cheek absently.

“So.”

Pockets, where are his pockets?

“Wanna dance or something? This song isn’t terrible, and we should probably keep the act going. _Babe_.” 

"Hey, improvising here," she sputters, but her face brightens instantly, and all his previous apprehension is swept under the force of that tiny perfect smile that makes her nose crinkle when she takes his hand and melds them into the mass of gyrating bodies.

He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. His first instinct is to kind of stare numbly at Maka as she finds her own tempo, and he lets himself get mesmerized by the twirl of her hips and sway of her shoulders. Maybe he’s even slackjawed.

She has absolutely no sense of rhythm and occasionally trips over her own two feet, but it’s cute. Like, stumbling toddler learning how to walk cute. She brushes sweaty bangs from her face and shoots him a grin, lower lip caught between her teeth. Count to ten Soul.

Her enthusiasm has lured him into an awkward shuffle with his legs, his arms doing this little swaying turbulent motion that okay, is kind of leaning towards Funky Chicken. Waltz and tango and salsa, he can do all the steps in his sleep, however stiffly performed. _Wes_ is the professional dancer, not him. But he knows a few moves, pays _some_ attention on the occasion that he has to snore through long-winded rehearsals and performances.

So he takes a little pride when she remarks, “Hey, you’re actually not that sucky!”

He only minorly notes her usage of middle school slang and feigns offense. “You thought I’d be _sucky_?” She laughs wickedly and spins under his arm.

They end up dancing the next song together, and then the next, until Soul is surprised to find that he doesn’t hate this nearly as much as he’d expected. He gets brave, lets his inhibitions loose and takes her hands. The glass fishbowl sensation has worn off quickly as no one seems to give a shit if his bass to bounce ratio is a little off. And he loves the way Maka gets completely lost in the music, closed eyes and dreamy smile, reminds him a bit of when he used to immerse himself in a composition.  

So it was really only a matter of time before something came along to fuck it up completely. That something taking the shape of Black Star (who else?) with a whooping shout of, “OI, THIS ONE’S FOR THE COUPLES.” Grating synth waves fade to love song ukulele. It’d be far too suspicious to cop out.

Maka’s eyes go wide and panicky, and she rocks back and forth on her heels. “Oh, um.”

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” he mutters lowly. He’s only mildly taken aback at his own initiative, but he’s not about to let some stupid Jason Mraz knock off blow their cover, dammit. She complies and his hands somehow find her hips, fingers light and barely brushing because he’s a fraction short of spontaneously combusting. He tries to draw upon every technique he’s sequestered from childhood dance lessons and ends up taking the lead, rotating in small, slow semicircles with her breath light and dangerously airy at his collar. Their hipbones touch leisurely every so often. This is fine. He’s fine. He stares at a fixed point over her head and tries not to dwell on the feel of her chest pressed close against his own.

“Is this okay?” she asks from his shoulder. Definitely fucking not if the downright oppressive tightness in his pants is anything to go by.

“My poor toes sure aren’t.” He resorts to snark, his natural defense mechanism, and prays to anything even remotely listening that she doesn’t notice the party going on between his legs. Think about student loan debt. Think about Mom. Think about Wes’s shit dog.

“Dick.”

No, no, no, no, no, no, no. His blood runs icy cold through his veins and he fishmouths for a full on twenty seconds. “ ** _What?_  **”

Maka sucks in an exasperated breath and speaks slowly, like she’s explaining something to a child. “You’re being a _dick_.” Hail Mary full of grace.

She’s not onto him, but he on the other hand is very hyper aware of the thin stretch of space between them that’s separating the compromise of his last shrivel of dignity as they sway in tandem to the music. Boners don’t mean anything. Boners are completely natural. This is about the closest he’s been to a girl since college, it’s perfectly normal to get a little more than worked up over it, especially when she’s rolling her hips and sighing into his fucking neck. Maka’s cute and her body is warm. It doesn’t mean he has a crush on her.

It _doesn’t_ mean he has a crush on her.

The song ends on a strummed out C chord, and when they part she gives him a smile ten times brighter than a solar flare while he tries desperately to tamper down the fireworks extravaganza going on in his stomach.

He’s harboring a very real crush for his very fake girlfriend and it’s very, very not okay.

Soul - 0 Universe - Laughing


End file.
